My office is on the second floor of the town hall, in the northeast corner of the buildin’ which is on the southwest corner of Main an’ Cross. Its chief advantage is it’s got windows facin’ both streets, so I can keep an eye on the main drag, an’ the bank, the drug store, all the in-town trouble spots, an’ the post office, which is on the east side of Cross Street, without leavin’ my seat. I got a comfortable chair—a semi-recliner that swivels—a desk big enough to spread my lunch out on—days I bring lunch, a chair for visitors, an’ a filin’ cabinet with the police radio an’ a coffeepot.
When I got back from the mission, I went up to my office an’ found a stranger sittin’ in my chair, with his feet on my desk. He didn’t rush to take ’em off when he spotted me.
“You must be the deputy sheriff,” he said. He was wearin’ snakeskin cowboy boots, tan slacks, a white dress shirt with no tie, a sport jacket, an’ state police shades.
I nodded an’ tried to keep what I thought of his manners from showin’. “An’ you’d be?”
He reached into his jacket an’ come out with a license wallet, which he tossed on the desk between us. “Special Agent Arnold, ATF.”
I restrained the urge to ask if that was Benedict Arnold or Arnold the Pig as I picked up the wallet an’ looked at it. There was a official-lookin’ badge an’ a officious-lookin’ card that said, George Arnold, an’ United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. No picture, but the attitude was right, an’ the shades were pretty much in character. I pulled my visitor’s chair up to the visitor’s side of my desk an’ sat down. “What kin ah do fer yew, Special Agent Arnold?” I could see him fightin’ to keep his sneer from showin’. Local deputy sheriffs seem to have that effect on ATF agents.
“I’m looking for one of your local good old boys,” he said. “One Ash Jackson.”
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing that concerns you. Where will I find him?”
“Don’t guess I could say. Hell, maybe.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“No chance. If I was smart, I’d locked my office ’fore I went out.” I put my feet on the desk an’ reached behind me to open the middle drawer of my filin’ cabinet an’ take out my fifth of Old Grandad. I opened it an’ took a swig before lookin’ back at Arnold. I was pleased to note he seemed to be havin’ trouble keepin’ his cool an’ was at a loss for somethin’ to say. Finally, he put his feet on the floor an’ said, “Does the sheriff approve of your drinking on the job?”
As it was plain he didn’t like to be kept waitin’, I took another swig an’ put the bottle back in the drawer ’fore I said, “Sheriff ain’t here. An’ there ain’t no department regulation ’gainst drinkin’ on duty.”
“You’re pathetic! When will the sheriff be in?”
“Can’t say that neither. You wanna leave a message?”
“You know what the penalty is for interfering in a federal investigation?”
“Can’t say I do. You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout no investigation.”
“I told you I’m looking for Ash Jackson.”
“Duly noted. If you tell me where you’re stayin’ I’ll let you know if he shows up. That’s the best I kin do. I’d like to talk with that good ol’ boy myself.”
That seemed to surprise him. “What for?”
“Nothin’ major. Little matter of a missin’ person.”
Arnold instantly lost interest. “Federal jurisdiction takes precedence.” He stood up. “I’ll be at the Motel Six. If you find him, I expect you to let me know immediately.”
“Yes, sir!”
He started to say somethin’ else, then just shook his head an’ stalked out. I stayed where I was until I was sure he wasn’t comin’ back, then went to see which way he went. When he come out of the buildin’, he climbed into a government-issue car parked on Cross Street an’ drove off in the direction of Motel Six. Then I closed up my office an’ went to find out from Nina what was really goin’ on.